


You'll Come Back To Me

by DAZzle_10



Series: You belong with me [2]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: M/M, Strangely blank on what to put here...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 09:23:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: 'Being in a relationship with Owen is like being in a relationship with a child. It’s exhausting, to tell the truth.'The night after the game against Japan, from Dylan's point of view.





	You'll Come Back To Me

**Author's Note:**

> So I need a bit more time on the next chapter from Owen's perspective, and it struck me this morning that I'd really like to write this (yes, I was listening to Coldplay, alright? And I was biking. It wasn't *just* the Coldplay). I'm also very much shook from reading the second chapter of BelieveMePlease's 'wine gums in the winter' - which I should really get round to commenting on instead of putting it in this. *ahem* Anyway...

Dylan’s heart is beating just a little too fast for his liking. The skin at the sides of his neck is prickling with heat, his hands clenched in his pockets as he focuses on his meal, trying to appear unconcerned, as if he hasn’t spent the last week cutting off conversations abruptly for the sole purpose of avoiding Owen’s presence – the man who, as far as the team is concerned, he’s in a romantic relationship with. Dylan would like to think that they still are, too.

In all honesty, he’s pretty sure they’re not.

Beside him, Owen shifts, and Dylan thinks the younger man glances at him, but he forces himself not to look. He hasn’t got a firm enough handle on his emotions to meet Owen’s eyes without cracking – though in what way, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t plan on finding out.

Still, he’s hyperaware of Owen’s actions, of the small breath Owen sucks in before the air is released in a rush that Dylan would almost label defeated. It tugs at his heartstrings, a guilt that he isn’t ready to admit to; Owen’s spent the last week looking increasingly like a lost puppy, and Dylan’s far from detached from caring about the man at his side, regardless of their fight and recent estrangement. They both said things that really crossed the line, and as much as Dylan would like to pretend that he’s faultless, that Owen deserved it for saying those things about Dylan’s career… Going after Owen’s family like that was too far.

The thing with Owen, Dylan knows, is that the younger man often doesn’t realise how much of an effect he has on people, particularly Dylan. (It’s almost enough to make Dylan feel bitter that Eddie believes Owen to be as suitable a Captain as him, but he promised himself when Eddie first called him up that he wouldn’t go down this route, wouldn’t hold a grudge about this – and he’s not about to go back on his assurance to Owen that he didn’t mind.) At any rate, Dylan doesn’t have the same excuse: he knew exactly what he was doing, how it would hurt Owen, and where Owen doesn’t have nearly enough experience or emotional control to fully accept his share of the blame, Dylan knows, can recognise, where he went wrong.

In a way, he thinks, being in a relationship with Owen is like being in a relationship with a child. Owen can be incredibly affectionate, and Dylan knows Owen worries about upsetting him, but when Dylan upsets Owen, there’s no limit to Owen’s response. It’s exhausting, to tell the truth. Worth it, most of the time, because Dylan’s head over heels for Owen, as much as he’d rather not be right now, but… Tiring, all the same.

Give it a few years, and Owen will learn, just like he did. It’s just that he’s not sure they’ll make it to their one-year anniversary in a matter of days – or that there’s anything to keep going left even now – let alone another thirty months or however long it takes.

He’s drawn from his musings by the brush of a hand against his own, the unexpected contact making him jump. As he realises exactly _whose_ skin he’s touching, he snatches his hand back, unwilling to prolong this painful interaction unnecessarily (not that the knowledge that Owen is right next to him but utterly unreachable isn’t torture enough – why the fuck did Owen have to sit next to him?). Unfortunately, he forgets about the glass of water next to his plate – untouched, no matter how dry his mouth is, because he’s been using something stronger to get through this instead – and it wobbles before he manages to get a hold of it and still it. As he does, he’s painfully aware of Owen’s eyes on him, burning a singular hole into his hand until he withdraws it and returns to his food.

Several hours later, drained and weary, Dylan finds himself walking alongside George Ford, a frown etched on the young Fly-half’s face where really, there should definitely be a proud grin.

“Well done,” he offers. “50 caps is an incredible achievement.”

That gets a genuine smile – but it drops after a matter of seconds and a mumbled ‘thanks’, and the serious crease returns to George’s brow.

“What’s wrong?” Dylan finds himself asking, glancing around for a second – long enough to catch sight of Owen trudging along some way ahead of them with his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched – before he returns his full attention to George.

“I…” George shrugs. “I’m a bit worried about Faz, is all. He seemed a little… off, today.”

“Yeah?” Dylan forces a snort, tries to appear unconcerned, and is fairly sure he does a good job: good enough to fool George at any rate, if not someone who knows him better, like – well, _Owen_. “Hates getting put on the bench, doesn’t he?”

“It’s not –” George stops in his tracks, grimacing, and Dylan halts as well, sighing internally when George glances up at him. “Nah, he’s been a bit off for the last few weeks, I guess. He just seems… _more_ off. Proper miserable and all.”

“Does he?” Dylan fights to keep his voice light. “I’ll talk to him.”

_Not likely._

“I – Yeah, alright.”

George doesn’t move.

“Thanks,” Dylan prompts, taking a step towards his room, and then another. “I’ll see you tomorrow, mate.”

Finally, George forces a smile and nods, turning back in the direction of his own room, and Dylan lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose before following the younger man’s lead and heading off to his own room – to Owen’s room.

Not that he plans on talking to Owen. They just happen to… co-exist in this space. Dylan plans on keeping it that way until he can work out how to sort this out; it might not make anything better, but at least neither of them is tripping up and making it all a whole lot worse.

Luckily, Owen’s nowhere to be seen; from the lack of sound and light, Dylan suspects that he’s already in bed. Good – that makes it a lot easier for him to go about his evening routine in peace. Irritatingly, however, George’s words keep coming back to him as he brushes his teeth and strips out of his suit and tie for the night. Owen’s been ‘off’ for a few weeks, has he? Since the first match, Dylan suspects.

Perhaps he should have noticed. Perhaps he should have recognised Owen’s continuing unwillingness to make more than the most subtle of contact in front of the team – but he didn’t, and Owen should have spoken to him sooner. Dylan doesn’t appreciate dishonesty in close relationships, never has. It’s always better to get everything on the table, when it comes to those you love. Always. (And he does love Owen. It’s just… taxing, sometimes.)

Try as he might, he can’t bring himself to close his eyes for more than thirty minutes at a time, sleeping in fits and waking to find himself restless with the urge to pace or _do something_ , until finally, around 05:00, he gives up and reaches for his phone. He goes through Instagram, then scours the internet to find out what people have already said about the game, rolling his eyes at the many articles on Owen’s importance to the team. Of course Owen’s important. Whether they _need_ Owen to win or not… That’s a different matter. Dylan suspects he’s one of the worst people imaginable to make that particular judgement.

Finally, with that option exhausted, he turns to Twitter. For some time, he scrolls through post after post in silence, eyes growing increasingly weary – but not so much that he would be able to sleep if he tried, he thinks. Nothing particularly interesting calls to him, and he’s almost considering putting his phone down to try and catch another half-hour of shut-eye regardless of the sense of impossibility the thought entails, but before he can make a decision, a tweet from Gareth Thomas that someone has retweeted catches his attention. Something about it has him abandoning his plans for another sleep attempt, and he taps on the video, waiting while it loads then pressing play.

“ _This morning I’ve decided to make what I hope will be a positive video…_ ”

Well… Shit.


End file.
